LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


CIMS 

. 


of  a  (Ettg 


By  the  Same  Author 

Cloth,  75c 

JACINTA,  AN  IDYLL,  AND  OTHER  VERSES 
BIGGS'S  BAR  AND  OTHER  KLONDYKE  BALLADS 


(Ettg 


BY 


HOWARD     V.     SUTHERLAND 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

THE  STAR  PRESS— JAMES  H.  BARRY. 
1904 


Copyright,    J904 
By  JAMES  H.  BARRY 


TO 

JOHN    WHITE 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
THE  FICKLE-STARRED  NINETIES 


r/ f 


C  0  N  T  E  N  T  S 


PART  I. 

Page 

THE      MISSING      FOOTSTEP 9 

A   GRAY    DAY 10 

DOING     THE     LINE 11 

PEACEFULNESS .13 

AT  NIGHT 14 

THE  TAVERN  ON  THE   FRONT 15 

RICHARD     REALF 19 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  TIDE 22 

BRET  HARTE 23 

BACHELOR    LYRICS,     1 24 

2 .      25 

3 26 

4    ........      27 

THE     CITY'S      SENTINEL 29 

THE  WINDS  OF  THE  WESTLANDS      .       .       .       .30 
THE    MIST 33 


Lyrical  Intermezzo. 


LYRIC          36 

LIFE 37 

SONG 38 

LYRIC          39 

A   LITTLE   SONG 40 

LYRIC          41 

THE    SEA    AND    THE    SHIPS 42 

DAYBURST 43 

LYRIC          44 

LYRIC          45 


Contents 

Page 

A  QUESTION  ANSWERED 46 

WOMAN'S     EYES 47 

THE   SUM   OF   LIFE 48 

THE    DEW 49 

A   SONG   OF   PEACE 50 

LYRIC          51 

AN   EASTER   LYRIC 52 

THE     MESSENGERS 53 

THE  CRY  OF  THE   MANY 54 

LOVE   AND    DEATH 55 

A     WOMAN'S     WAY 5G 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BELOVED 58 

LYRIC          60 

LYRIC          61 

APPRECIATION 62 

SHOULD  AUGHT  BEFALL      ....  63 


PART  II. 

KEITH     AT     THE     EASEL 66 

FERRYBOAT    FANCIES,    1 70 

2      ........  71 

3 72 

4 73 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG 74 

THE   HIGHER   PRAISE 75 

AN  ODE  TO  THE  SONS  OF  CALIFORNIA      .       .76 

CALIFORNIA 81 

LOTTA'S      FOUNTAIN 82 

MY    WEST,    MY    WEST 83 

THE      CHINESE 89 

LUNA'S 91 

A   YEAR'S    CHANGE 95 

SAN    FRANCISCO 96 

MUSIC    IN    THE    PARK 97 

THE    PROMISE    OF    LIFE  98 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE  MISSING  FOOTSTEP. 

The  crowd  is  gay  on  Market  street 

Parading  up  and  down; 
One  hears  the  hum,  the  tread  of  feet- 

The  music  of  the  town. 

The  shops  are  all  ablaze  with  light, 
So,  too,  the  women's  eyes; 

The  cable  cars  illume  the  night 
Like  monstrous  fire-flies. 

I  stand  alone  beneath  a  lamp 
And  smoke  my  cigarette; 

I  miss  a  footstep  in  that  tramp 
Which  I  can  ne'er  forget. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


A    GRAY    DAY. 

The  sky  has  donned  its  robe  of  gray, 
The  rain  is  pouring  down; 

Few  ships  are  moving  on  the  Bay, 
Few  people  in  the  town. 

Along  the  streets  the  cable  cars 

Creep  by  at  solemn  pace; 
The  tracks  are  bright,  like  livid  scars 

Across  the  city's  face. 

Anon  a  ray  of  sunshine  tries 
Between  the  clouds  to  dart; 

The  awful  grayness  leaves  the  skies 
But  bides  within  my  heart. 


10 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


DOING    THE    LINE. 

I  like  to  watch  the  people  stroll 

From  Powell  street  to  Pine, 
On  Market  and  on  Kearny  streets— 

The  San  Francisco  line. 

The  women  wear  the  latest  styles, 

They  could  not  fairer  be; 
And  with  what  art  they  oft  display 

Their  dainty  lingerie! 

Their  eyes  are  dark,  their  eyes  are  grey, 
Their  eyes  are  deepest  blue; 

Their  eyes  are  bright  enough,  alas, 
To  torture  me,  or  you. 

And,  oh!  they  use  those  eyes  of  theirs 

As  only  women  can; 
They  know  full  well  the  way  to  break 

The  heartstrings  of  a  man. 

No  city  in  the  world  can  boast 

Fair  women  such  as  these; 
Who  is  not  captured  by  their  charms 

Is,  truly,  hard  to  please. 

11 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

For  me,  to  see  them  is  to  feel 
That  life  is  truly  good; 

And  he  must  surely  be  a  bear 
Who  loves  not  womanhood. 


12 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


PEACEFULNESS. 

A  golden  glory  lights  the  west — 

The  sun's  farewell; 
One  chime  sounds  clearer  than  the  rest 

The  daytime's  knell. 

The  eastern  skies  are  crimsoned  now 

And  edged  with  grey; 
The  beams  from  Tamalpais'  brow 

Have  passed  away. 

On  Alcatraz  the  light  is  lit, 

The  Bay  is  still; 
And  soon  the  truant  mists  will  flit 

O'er  dell  and  hill. 

So  still  the  town  this  Sabbath  night, 

So  calm  the  air, 
One  almost  sees  the  angels  light 

Those  stars  up  there! 


13 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


AT   NIGHT. 

The  streets  are  deserted,  the  city  is  still, 
Its  hours  of  rest  have  begun; 

The  fog  from  the  ocean  is  heavy  and  chill— 
A  clock  strikes  the  hour  of  one. 

A  peanut  man  pushes  his  truck  to  the  Coast, 
A  hack  wakes  a  neighboring  street; 

A  desolate  dog,  with  a  sniff  of  a  ghost, 
Comes  hungrily  up  to  my  feet. 

A  couple  of  Chinamen  pass  me  in  file, 
And  presently,  into  the  light, 

A  castaway  comes  with  her  lip-weary  smile 
And  a  heart  that  is  cold  as  the  night. 


14 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE  TAVERN  ON  THE  FRONT. 

Down  on  the  water-front,  empty,  forsaken, 
Stands  an   old  tavern,   dust-covered   and 

grey; 

Daily  and  nightly  its  timbers  are  shaken 
By  the  rough  breezes  that  sport  on  the 

bay. 
Barred  are  its  windows  with  meaningless 

shutters, 

Locked  is  the  portal  that  never  knew  key ; 
Filled  are  the  halls  with  the  ominous  mut 
ters 

Of  winds  that,  imprisoned,  make  moan  for 
the  sea. 

Many  long  years  the  old  tavern  has  carried 
The  sign  that  is  sad  and  too  common :  "To 

Let"; 

Few  people  saw  it,  and  none  of  them  tarried, 
None  of  them  viewed  the  old  inn   with 

regret. 

Brave  were  the  man  who  attempted  to  run 
it; 


15 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Loafers  will  pass  it  nor  give  it  a  glance; 
Even  the  venturesome  little  ones  shun  it, 
Policemen    and    wharf-rats    will    eye    it 
askance. 


Yet  it  is  said  that  in  days  long  departed 

Came  to  this  tavern,  from  countries  afar, 
Men  that  were  mighty  of  limb,  lion-hearted — 
Men  who  had  braved  tribulation  and  war. 
Some  of  them  came  seeking  fabulous  treas 
ure; 
Some  of  them  came  seeking  freedom  or 

rest. 

We  of  to-day  may  not  venture  to  measure 
The  hopes  of  the  men  who  first  came  to  the 
West. 


Here  came  the  miners  and  squandered  their 

wages, 

Bought  the  red  wine  with  a  ruddier  gold; 
Wrote  in  red  letters  the  earliest  pages 

Of  doings  long  famous  and  ever  re-told. 
Till  the  young  sun  with  its  golden-tipped 
finger 

16 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Woke  the  great  mountains  with  bosoms 

dew-pearled, 

Here  in  the  tavern  the  heroes  would  linger 
Telling  the  tales  that  awakened  a  world. 


Once  the  rooms  echoed  the  sound  of  men's 

laughter, 
Heard,  as  they  drank,  the  clear  clink  of  the 

glass; 
Heard  the  brave  singing  that  followed  right 

after — 

Songs  of  the  home,  or  the  mine,  or  the  lass. 
Now  the  strong  singers  are  silent  and  sleep 
ing, 
Drear  are  the  chambers  they  sang  in,  and 

cold; 

Death  and  forgetf illness  have  in  their  keep 
ing 

Those  who  once  drank  in  the  days  that  are 
old. 


Empty  the  house  is,  rat-ridden  and  rotten, 
Only  the  sunbeams  caress  its  poor  face; 


17 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

There  it  is  standing,  despised  and  forgotten, 

Left  far  behind  in  the  city's  mad  race. 
Only  at  night-time,  when  slumbers  the  city, 
When  the  white  mist  covers  hillside  and 

street, 

Come  the  old  spirits  who  love  it  and  pity 
The  place  that  once  shook  'neath  the  tread 
of  their  feet. 


18 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

RICHARD     REALF. 

(An  Elegy.) 

Singer,  who  now  art  most  silent,  I  stand  by 

thy  grave  and  I  proffer 
Pansies  and  golden-lined  poppies,  symbols  of 

thought  and  of  glory; 
Gifts  from  the  bosom  that  hides  thee  from 

sight  of  the  cynical  scoffer, 
Paying  no  heed  to  the  sobbing  that  runs 

through  each  poet's  sad  story. 


Sing  as  it  pleases  the  poet,  his  sorrow  is 

often  his  wages — 
Enters  the  joy  and  the  sunlight  too  seldom 

the  soul  of  his  being; 
Wanders  the  eye  of  the  many  across  the 

most  sacred  of  pages, 
Little  avails  the  great  message  he  gains  by 

his  own  clearer  seeing. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Yet  there  are  ears  that  will  hearken,  and 

eyes  that  are  moistened  while  reading 
Hints  of  a  life  that  is  dawning,  as  shown  by 

the  spirit's  vain  striving; 
Theirs  are  the  thanks  worth  the  having;  for 

these  to  his  teachings  give  heeding, 
Gaining  therefrom  the  power  to  laugh  at  the 

world's  vain  conniving. 

Sad  was  thy  life  and  most  sombre,  and  soft 

was  the  tone  of  thy  singing, 
Suiting  thy  turbulent  spirit  and  luring  it  into 

forgetting ; 
Winds  unto  thee,  and  sweet  flowers,  gave 

promise  of  future  lives,  bringing 
Chances  for  love  and  for  glory,  and  rest  from 

the  soul's  ceaseless  fretting. 

Vainly  the  fires  assailed  thee;  for  into  thy 

heart's  depths  descended 
Love  for  earth's  suffering  children — the  love 

that  unhappiness  mellows; 
Bound  thee  to  God,  the  Creator,  and  most 

indissolubly  blended 
Spirit  of  thine,  ever  scourged,  with  spirits 

long  scourged  of  thy  fellows. 
20 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Thine  now  the  blessing  of  silence — Death  its 

compassionate  bringer. 
We,  who  are  weary,  still  love  thee,  and  so 

thou  art  paid  for  thy  sorrow. 
Safe  in  the  hearts  of  the  watchers  abides 

every  sure-noted  singer, 
Binding  with  bonds  everlasting  the  past  and 

the  shadowy  morrow. 


21 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE   COMING   OF   THE   TIDE. 

Wait  ye  a  while.    Or  soon  or  late 
Shall  roll  towards  the  Golden  Gate 
A  greater  sea  of  men  to  bless 
Our  fields  that  mourn  their  idleness. 


22 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


BRET  HAETE. 

He  wrote,  and  lo!  the  overwearied  world 
Looked  up,  looked  West,  to  where  above 
each  hill 

The  mist's  white  flag  lay  solemnly  unfurled. 
He  wrote,  and  lo!  the  world  is  looking  still. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


BACHELOR  LYRICS. 
I. 

The  fog  outside  is  thick  to-night, 
The  street  looks  dark  and  drear; 

My  little  room  is  snug  and  light 
But,  oh,  she  is  not  here. 

I  lean  against  the  window  pane 
And  hear  the  cable's  whir ; 

The  wind  is  wooing  me  in  vain, 
I  only  think  of  her. 

The  skull  upon  my  table  grins; 

Did  he,  too,  love  in  vain? 
Yet  gladly  would  I  bear  his  sins 

Could  he  but  bear  my  pain. 


24 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY, 


2. 


My  fire  is  brightly  gleaming; 

I  kneel  beside  my  chair, 
And  let  my  thoughts  go  dreaming 

To  find  my  loved  one  there. 

My  fire  is  slowly  sinking, 
The  flames  begin  to  die; 

And  I — still  kneeling,  thinking — 
Can  hear  the  poor  wind  sigh. 

My  fire  has  turned  to  embers, 
The  cheerful  flames  are  flown; 

My  heart  the  dream  remembers, 
But,  oh,  I  wake  alone! 


25 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


3. 


Within  my  room  at  shadow-tide 
My  dear  love  often  lingers; 

She  lays  my  pipe  and  pen  aside 
With,  oh,  such  dainty  fingers. 

I  watch  the  lights  within  her  eyes, 
I  stroke  her  fragrant  tresses; 

She  gently  soothes  my  weary  sighs 
With  kisses  and  caresses. 

Yes,  she  is  mine;  and  yet  I  feel 
So  lonely,  oh,  so  lonely; 

Away  each  moment  she  must  steal- 
She's  mine  in  fancy  only. 


26 


80NGB  OF  A  CITY. 


I  am  sitting  alone  in  my  chamber  to-night, 
With  a  pen  and  a  book  and  a  frail  cigar 
ette, 

And  a  heart  for  a  friend  that  has  never  been 

light, 

And  a  brain  for  a  foe  that  will  never  for 
get. 

I   suppose  there  are  many  just  doing  the 
same — 

Whispering  softly  one  musical  name. 

There  are  hundreds  of  fellows  just  sitting 

like  this, 
With  a  pen,  or  a  book,  or  a  pipe  in  their 

hand; 
But  they  don't  do  much  work,  for  they  know 

what  they  miss 
While  the  world  thinks  them  happy — well, 

few  understand. 

A  man  who  is  lonely  must  shoulder  his  load 
And  smile  as  he  travels  the  thorn-beset  road. 


27 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

There  are  others,  of  course,  with  a  happier 

fate. 

Do  they  know  what  they've  gained?    Well, 
I  doubt  it.  my  friend. 

'Tis  the  man  who  was  robbed  of  his  early 

loved  mate 

Who  thinks  of  the  blessings  the  gods  some 
times  send; 

'Tis  he  who  could  speak  of  love's  value  and 
cost, 

He  knows  it  too  well — for  the  poor  devil  Jost! 


28 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE   CITY'S   SENTINEL. 

Superbly  grand,  this  sentry  lifts  its  head 
To  where  the  four  great  breezes  roam  on 

high 

And  guard  the  star-specked  highways  of 
the  sky. 

Ablaze  with  light,  like  home  of  genii, 
Its  slender  shaft  shoots  upward,  while  the 

Night 
Her  sad  face  veils,  despairing,  at  the  sight. 

The    sunshine    bathes    its    face,    impassive, 

white; 
The  ghostly  mists — lost  souls  that  yearn 

for  rest — 
Glide  slowly  past,  beneath  its  stately  crest. 

Stand  long,  stand  strong,  thou  sentry  of  the 

West, 

And  be  a  mute  incentive  to  each  Son 
To  crown  the  work  by  Pioneer  begun. 


SONGS  OF  A  CIT7. 


THE  WINDS  OF  THE  WESTLANDS. 

Over  the  breasts  of  the  mountains,' 
Into  the  dew-sparkling  bowers, 

Sporting  with  brooks  and  with  fountains, 
Kissing  the  wondering  flowers, 

Wander  the  winds  of  the  Westlands. 

Forth  from  the  heaven's  high  porches 
Burst  they  along  with  the  morning: 

Dimming  the  stars'  feeble  torches, 
Passing  with  boisterous  warning 

Down    through    the    night's    vanquished 
shadows. 

Over  each  weary-faced  city 
Groaning  aloud  in  its  anguish, 

Pause  they  in  infinite  pity, 

Seeing  such  multitudes  languish, 

Crushed  by  the  hand  of  oppression. 

Men  are  no  longer  as  brothers, 

Each  has  to  fight  or  go  under; 
Pale  are  the  beautiful  mothers, 


30 


OF  A  CITY. 

Hearing  life's  terrible  thunder; 
White  are  the  cheeks  of  the  children. 

Loud  is  the  master's  harsh  laughter 
E'en  while  the  skies  o'er  him  darken; 

Who  cares  for  what  may  come  after? 
Who  to  the  message  will  hearken 

Borne  by  the  winds  of  the  heavens? 

Never  the  winds  cease  their  chanting, 
Echoed  by  canyons  and  passes; 

There  where  the  hillsides  are  slanting 
Write  they  a  name  on  the  grasses, 

Luring  the  footsteps  of  angels. 

Poets  and  prophets  and  sages 
Tell  of  the  message  they  carry; 

"Upward  and  on  through  the  ages 
Passes  the  race,  nor  may  tarry 

E'en  till  the  last  sees  the  sunlight. 

"E'en  till  all  sorrow  is  driven 
Out  of  the  world's  dusty  places; 

E'en  till  the  darkness  is  riven, 
Veiling  the  light  in  the  faces 

Even  of  God's  chosen  people." 


31 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Those  are  the  words  (will  you  listen?) 
Sung  by  the  winds  as  they  wander 

Over  the  grass  blades  that  glisten 
Ever  so  brightly  up  yonder, 

Up  on  those  beautiful  hillsides. 

Eve  time!    A  cattle  bell  ringing; 

Bees  rise  from  honey-sweet  clover; 
Winds  at  the  portal  are  singing 

Deeds  of  the  day  time  now  over, 
Asking  God's  grace  for  the  night  time. 


32 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE   MIST. 

The  mist  is  San  Francisco's  veil 
With  which  she  hides  her  eyes 

At  even-tide,  when  sunbeams  fall, 
From  yon  enamored  skies. 

It  leaves  the  grey  Pacific's  breast 

And  decks  her  till  the  day, 
White-limbed  and  ruddy-cheeked,  hastes 
West 

And  drives  the  night  away. 


83 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LYRIC. 

Within  a  garden  bright 
A  rosebud  lifts  her  head; 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  night, 
The  wind  is  thither  led. 

It  creeps  across  the  sky, 
It  nestles  by  its  rose; 

It  seeks  near  her  to  die — 
Its  passion  no  one  knows. 

Thy  lot  is  sad,  O  Wind! 

Though  true  thy  love  may  be, 
Each  rose  is  too  unkind 

To  heed  thy  love  or  thee. 


36 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LIFE. 

A  bridgeless  river  rolls  between 
Two  banks  that  are  as  one ; — 

Two  lovers  decked  in  fairest  green 
And  wooed  by  wind  and  sun. 

Across  the  gulf  by  night  and  day 
Their  loving  looks  they  dart; 

The  river  still  pursues  its  way 
And  keeps  them  both  apart. 


37 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


SONG. 

I  once  was  young,  alas, 

Nor  knew  the  worth  of  love; 

I  saw  Fame  slowly  pass 
Along  the  heights  above; 

Love  called  to  me  to  stay, 

Fame  beckoned  me  away — 

"Were  I  but  old!"  I  thought. 

The  days  are  shorter  now, 

Fame  still  is  far  ahead; 

No  laurels  deck  my  brow, 

Gray  hairs  are  there  instead. 
Alone  I  tread  Life's  plain. 
Love  will  not  come  again — 

"Were  I  but  young!"  I  sigh, 
"Were  I  but  young!" 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LYKIC. 

O  happy  winds  that  kiss  the  flowers, 
O  laughing  winds,  that  woo  the  sea, 

Ye  little  care  though  pass  the  hours — 
Ye  live  and  love  eternally. 

But  we  poor  phantoms,  resting  never, 
Whose  flights  are  measured  by  the  day, 

Live  once,  love  once,  and  hunger  ever, 
Then  sleep  a  sleep  that  lasts  alwav. 


39 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


A    LITTLE    SONG. 

Go,  little  song,  and  greet  niy  love 
Who  lives  in  the  peaceful  south ; 

Join  with  the  scented  winds  that  touch- 
Oh,  envied  winds! — her  mouth. 

Ask  her  to  turn  her  eyes  in  pity 

To  one  who  waits  in  the  restless  city, 
Thinking  of  her. 

Go,  little  song,  and  greet  my  love, 

And  bid  her  come  to  me; 
Tell  her  a  lovers  voice  is  good — 

As  good  as  the  voice  of  the  sea. 
Tell  her  the  stars  that  shine  above  her 
Weep  when  they  see  her  weary  lover 
Grieving  for  her. 


40 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LYRIC. 

Saddest  singer  in  the  grove 

Is  the  dove; 
Yet  it  has  a  treasure  trove 

In  its  love. 

Blows  the  wind  from  east  or  west, 
Peace  there  is  within  the  nest 
With  its  mate  of  downy  breast, 

Never  old. 

To  an  image  in  my  heart 

I  must  sing; 
None  will  ever  know  the  smart 

Longings  bring. 
Sweet  may  be  the  poet's  lays, 
Maidens  know  too  well  what  pays; 
Love  stands  begging  nowadays 

In  the  cold. 


41 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE   SEA  AND  THE   SHIPS. 

The  sad  sea  loves  each  mighty  ship 
That  nestles  on  its  breast, 

And  geeks  to  hold  it  there  for  aye — 
It  longs  to  be  caressed. 

The  mighty  ships  have  iron  hearts, 
They  speed  toward  the  shore; 

They  leave  the  weary  waves  behind 
That  mourn  for  evermore. 


42 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


DAYBURST. 

A  mass  of  roofs  that  gleam  with  silvery  light, 
A  far-off  noise  as  though  a  giant  wakes; 

One  single  star — a  lonely  anchorite 

That   keeps   still    watch    until   the  young 
day  breaks. 

A  pregnant  cloud,  with  golden  glory  filled, 
Which  rises  slowly  to  the  purpled  rim 

And  then   swells  over,   while  the  world  is 

thrilled 
To  hear  the  music  of  the  first  bird's  hvmn. 


43 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LYKIC. 

The  sunbeams  woo  the  grayest  dawn; 

The  saddest  song  must  cease; 
To  every  bird,  howe'er  forlorn, 

There  comes  a  time  of  peace. 

Each  dew-kissed  flow'ret  finds  a  bee, 
The  lonely  winds  find  rest; 

Each  child  can  seek  a  mother's  knee, 
Each  soul  a  Father's  breast. 

Beside  each  thorn  a  rosebud  lies, 
The  ripples  woo  the  sands, 

The  heart  alone  forever  sighs, 
And  no  one  understands. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LYRIC. 

A  victim  I  to  one  disease 
That  mocks  my  doctor's  art; 

No  gentle  fancies  flock  to  please 
A  melancholy  heart. 

The  bees  will  shun  the  blossoms  raped 

By  truant  winds  or  rain; 
Shall  Love  abide  in  shrines  dark-draped, 

And  sing  his  songs  in  vain? 

For  Love  is  young,  not  patient  he; 

Though  blind,  he  loves  the  light. 
He  fears  the  place  where  grief  may  be 

As  sunflowers  fear  the  night. 


45 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


A  QUESTION  ANSWERED. 

"Why  this  ceaseless  striving? 

Is  it  any  good — 
Plotting  and  conniving, 

Nothing  understood? 

"  Days  and  nights  will  follow 
Till  Time's  web  be  skeined; 

Happiness  and  Sorrow 
Both  are  pre-ordained !  " 

"Granted;  but  soul  fires 

Still  may  purify! 
Take  away  desires 

What  but  brute  am  I? 

"  Win  or  lose,  strive  ever ; 

Time  ordained  brings  rest; 
God's  great  plan  fails  never. 

Fear  not;  He  knows  best." 


46 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


WOMAN'S   EYES. 

Eyes  of  blue  are  fanciful, 

Like  the  summer's  sky; 
Eyes  of  brown  are  eyes  of  love, 

Trustful  till  they  die. 

Eyes  of  grey  are  wise  and  pure, 

Fearless,  never  shrink; 
Eyes  of  black  are  eloquent, 

But  they  seldom  think. 

Therefore  choose  the  gray  or  brown, 

And  thou  soon  wilt  find 
All  the  wealth  of  heart  and  soul 

Smouldering  behind. 


47 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE   SUM   OF   LIFE. 

We  laugh  till  noon. 

Then  shadows  creep 

Across  our  path ; 
And,  none  too  soon, 

We  fall  asleep. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE    DEW. 

In  Paradise  an  angel  stands, 

Of  loving  heart  and  tender  mien; 

Her  face  is  covered  by  her  hands, 

For  she  is  weeping. 
The  Earth  below  is  steeped  in  gloom, 
The  grass  looks  sordid,  old  and  dry; 
The  world  rolls  onward  to  its  doom, 

And  all  is  sleeping. 

The  tears  o'erflow  those  sacred  eyes 
And  speed  to  earth  their  pilgrim  way; 
O'er  every  bough  and  bush  soon  lies 

The  dew  of  heaven. 
The  poet  greets  the  trembling  dawn 
With  outstretched  arms  and  fervent  prayer; 
He  sees  the  drooping  world  re-born — 

Its  sins  forgiven. 


49 


SONGS  OF  A  CIT'T. 


A    SONG    OF    PEACE. 

Peace  to  our  little  home, 

Love  and  companionship; 
Others  abroad  may  roam — 
Here  will  we  rest. 


Duties  done,  here  we  meet; 

Sacred  this  home  to  us. 
(Thank  God  for  you,  my  sweet,)- 
Peace  be  our  guest! 


50 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LYRIC. 

I  know  that  thou  art  beautiful, 
I  know  that  thou  art  pure. 

Of  this — that  thou  art  merciful, 
Ah,  Love,  let  me  be  sure. 

For  mercy  doth  become  a  saint, 
And  thou  can'st  well  forgive 

A  sinner  who  for  this  did  sin: 
That  he  through  thee  might  live. 


51 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

AN   EASTER  LYRIC. 

(1897.) 

Ah,  Phyllis,  best  of  all  dear  girls, 
Lest  I  should  fall  from  grace, 

I  pray  thee,  hide  those  tempting  curls 
And  veil  that  saintly  face 

When  I  shall  sit  by  thy  dear  side 

In  church  at  holy  Easter-tide. 

So  long  I  worship  thee  alone, 
By  morn,  and  noon,  and  night, 

That  I  must  haste  me  and  atone 
If  I  would  gain  the  Light. 

So  turn  that  angel  face  away 

From  me  a  while  on  Easter  Day. 

Yet  stay;  it  matters  not  to  me 

What  happens  after  death, 
If  I  but  gain  one  glance  from  thee 

Or  feel  thy  fragrant  breath 
Upon  my  cheek.    Oh,  do  not  scorn 
My  hungry  eyes  on  Easter  Morn  ! 


52 


80NGB  OF  A  CITY. 


THE  MESSENGERS. 

To  the  battle-field  of  Life, 

Where    the    strongest    heart    grows 

frightened 
By  the  thunder-din  and  strife, 

Come  two  messengers  enlightened. 


First  the  new-born,  in  whose  eyes 
May  be  seen  the  dreamy  quiver 

Of  the  light  of  Paradise, 
Like  a  greeting  from  the  Giver. 


When  the  fight  is  almost  done, 
And  the  after-life  is  dawning, 

Comes  old  Death,  and  all  is  won — 
For  his  eyes  reveal  the  morning. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE   CRY   OF  THE   MANY. 

All  ye  who  love  and  who  are  blessed 
With  that  which  gives  men  peace, 
Whose  weary  brows  have  been  caressed 

By  loving  hands; 
Bethink  ye  once  of  those  poor  men 

Who  wander  all  alone 

Through  Life's  thick  brakes  and  gloomy  fen 
And  shifting  sands. 


Pray  once  for  those  whose  eyes  ne'er  met 

A  loved  one's  purest  gaze, 
Whose  weighted  hearts  could  ne'er  forget 

Their  chains  close-riven; 
Whose  feet  ne'er  trod  that  golden  stair 

Which  ends  at  heaven's  gate; 
Then  we  some  day  may  meet  her  there — 
Beloved,  forgiven! 


54 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LOVE   AND   DEATH. 

Love  is  youthful,  Love  is  gay, 

Love  is  often  proud; 
Love  oft  comes  and  goes  away 

Like  a  golden  cloud. 
Love  oft  cuts  the  truest  heart 

Like  a  two-edged  knife; 
Love  is  bought  and  sold  in  mart — 
Love  is  Life! 


Death  is  older,  Death  is  pure, 
Death  is  Love  grown  wise; 

Death  is  calm,  of  purpose  sure; 
Death  has  moistened  eyes. 

Death  is  robed  in  vestments  white, 
Death  bids  Sorrow  cease; 

Death  is  God's  eternal  Light — 
Death  is  Peace! 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


A   WOMAN'S  WAY. 

Why  comes  he  not?    The  hour  is  late, 

He  ne'er  forgot  before; 
I  sit  in  silence  and  await 

His  step  outside  my  door. 

I  thought  for  once  I  would  surprise 

That  truant  love  of  mine; 
But  all  untouched  the  supper  lies, 

Unope'd  the  sparkling  wine. 

The  violets  I  bought  for  him 

Are  wilting  in  despair; 
My   blushing  rose — his  foolish  whim — 

Is  burning  in  my  hair. 

Men  are  so  strange;  they  seldom  think 

Of  things  as  women  do; 
They  love  as  they  may  eat  or  drink, 

Forgetting  all  when  through. 


56 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

We  women  venture  much,  it  seems, 
On  what  is  merely  chance; 

And  many  find  the  blade  that  gleams 
Behind  a  lover's  glance. 

Can  he  be  false?     I  still  can  feel 

His  kiss.     I  hear  the  vow 
He  made  that  night  when  he  did  steal 

The  love  he  turns  from  now. 

Some  say  there  is  a  God  above, 

AnS  some  that  it  is  Fate; 
But  hush!  his  step — his  knock!     "  O  Love, 

'Twas  wrong  to  come  so  late." 


57 


80NQS  OF  A  C/2T. 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   BELOVED. 

Of  all   long   days  this   day  has    been    the 

longest, 

And  saddest,  too,  of  days,  O  God,  how  sad ! 
Hell's  hungry  flames  this  day  have  burned 

the  strongest 

Within  my  heart  that  never  yet  was  glad. 
No   songbirds'   notes,   nor  winds   that   sing 

'neath  heaven, 
Nor  flowers'  scents,  nor  yonder  moaning 

shore, 
The  deepening  gloom  about  my  soul  have 

riven 
Wherein  true  rest  shall  enter  nevermore. 

For  on  this  day,  when  yonder  sun  is  setting, 

A  fairer  sun  and  sweeter  sets  for  me; 
No  chance  is  there  for  nay  poor  heart  forget 
ting 
In  scented  dusk  the  things  it  hoped  would 

be. 

The  calm  old  stars  will  light  the  weary  flow 
ers 

58 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Until  the  dawn  strides  forth  from  heaven's 

gates; 

But  ne'er  a  star  will  rise  to  light  the  hours 
For   one   who   stands   in    loneliness    and 

waits. 

Love,  pray  nie  strength  until  shall  dawn  that 

morrow 

When  by  thy  side  I  seek  eternal  grace, 
Made  pure  and  sweet  by  life's  divinest  sor 
row — 

The  ceaseless  longing  for  a  loved  one's  face. 
And  though  the  gloom  my  weary  path  may 

darken, 

And  tears  make  dim  the  glory  to  mine  eyes, 
Be   thou,   love,   near,   that   I   to   thee   may 

hearken 
And  learn  the  songs  they  sing  in  Paradise. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LYRIC. 

Where  are  now  those  years  departed 
When  the  children,  simple-hearted, 
Beautified  life's  desert  plain? 
Gone  are  they,  with  love-faint  flowers 

Wooed  at  night  by  summer  showers ; 

Seek  them  not — thy  quest  is  vain. 

Loud  is  now  the  Wheel's  stern  grinding, 
Dark  is  gloom,  yet  Light  too  blinding; 
Grope  we  ever,  never  finding — 
Children,  flowers,  all  have  left  us. 

All  have  left  us!    Lone  and  weary 
Climb  we  up  the  hillsides  dreary 

Where  the  fairies  once  did  reign. 
Oh,  return,  ye  years  departed, 
Flowers,  children  simple-hearted, 

Bring  us  rest  and  soothe  our  pain! 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LYRIC. 

At  the  gate  of  thy  heart,  O  Beloved,  I  stand. 

For  my  sins  to  atone. 

I  have  naught  but  my  love  and  my  life  in  my 
hand, 

They  are  thine — thine  alone. 

All  the  birds -of  the  woods  take  delight  in  my 

pain, 

E'en  the  stars  smile  above; 
And  the  boisterous  winds  think  my  efforts 

are  vain 
To  secure  thy  fond  love. 

Spare  my  tears  and  my  shame!    O  Beloved, 

I  wait 

To  atone  for  each  sin. 
I  am  weary  and  cold;   open  thou  the  small 

gate— 
O  my  Love,  let  me  in! 


61 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


APPEECIATION. 

Oft  unanswered  are  the  words, 

Singer,  of  our  songs; 
Oft  unnoticed  sing  the  birds — 

They,  too,  have  their  wrongs. 
Wave-crash,  wind-sigh,  summer-shower, 
Star-lamp,  bee-drone,  dew  on  flower, 
Tints  in  sky  at  sunset  hour — 

Few  can  these  things  see. 

Be  not,  therefore,  sad  of  heart, 

Singer,  but  sing  on; 
Simple  singing  soothes  life's  smart — 

Wages  comes  anon. 

Not  for  naught  those  star-lamps  swinging; 
Some  one  hears  the  love-birds  singing; 
What  if  God  hears  songs  go  ringing 

Through  Eternity? 


62 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


SHOULD  AUGHT  BEFALL. 

Should  aught  befall,  dear  love  of  mine, 

To  keep  us  twain  apart, 
T  will  be  no  fault  of  mine  or  thine, 

Who  have  one  common  heart. 
A  simple  creed  is  ours,  indeed — 
"I  love  my  love;  my  love  I  need." 

But  there  is  one  (I  shun  his  name) 

Who  lurketh  ever  near, 
A  foe  to  love,  a  foe  to  fame, 

And  him,  dear  love,  I  fear. 
I  fear  lest  he  may  beckon  me 
Because  my  eyes  are  turned  to  thee. 

But  should  I  go  I  know  not  where, 
Of  this,  dear  love,  be  sure, 

I'll  wait  thy  spirit's  coming  there 
Where  all  things  shall  endure. 

Be  sure  I  loved  thee  best  of  all, 

And  ever  will — let  aught  befall. 


63 


g>0ttga  of  a  dt 

PART    II 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


KEITH  AT  THE   EASEL. 

That's  how  I  like  to  work!  See,  there  is  noth 
ing  of  plan 

Here  in  this  colored  mass  of  meaningless 
greens  and  browns, 

Taken  from  off  the  palette,  placed  haphazard 
upon 

A  shingle  that  smells  of  the  forest,  a  canvas 
that  might  have  been 

Beloved  of  the  full-souled  wind  that  blows 
o'er  the  laughing  sea. 

Yet  if  you  wait  awhile — even  as  I  must  wait. 

Until  the  finger  of  God  touches  my  wan 
dering  brush — 

Then  from  this  chaos  of  color  something  with 
meaning  will  come, 

Which,  with  a  final  stroke,  broadens  to  clear 
ness,  and  soon 

Lies  a  completed  picture  there  on  the  breast 
of  my  board. 


fifi 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

"Splotches  of  green,"  you  say.    Well,  there's 

a  splotch  of  brown, 
And  a  splotch   of  white  at   the   back  and  a 

splotch  of  summer  blue, 
Arid  a  dark  line  up  and  down,  and  another 

one  here,  and  there, 
And  a  scrape  with  a  knife  as  well,  and  then 

with  the  brush  again. 
And — eh?    Oh,  you  see  it  now;  the  redwoods 

looming  up 
And  the  foliage  all  around,  and  the  good 

light  falling  through 

And  kissing  the  humble  ground  that  moth 
ered  those  mighty  trees? 


Well,  it  is  only  a  sketch,  a  hint  that  a  Hand 

within 
Guided      those      aimless      strokes,      those 

"splotches"  of  blue  and  green, 
Leaving  to  me  the  task  of  working  along  His 

lines 
To  finish,  as  man  best  may,  the  picture  that 

He  began. 
That's  where  the  secret  lies:     "To  finish  as 

man  best  may 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

The  picture  that  He  began";  to  feel,  as  the 

color  comes 
To  the  redwood  tree  or  the  sky,  or  the  tiniest 

bloom  beneath, 
As  aeons  and  aeons  ago  the  Artist  Himself 

did  feel 
When  He  clothed  the  stalwart  trees  in  the 

colors  best  suited  them; 
To  be,  in  an  humble  way,  a  heavenly  artisan, 
And  fashion,  on  canvas  or  board,  the  pictures 

He  makes  and  hangs 
For  us  to  wonder  at  in  the  galleries  of  the 

world. 


Look  at  the  picture  now,  less  indistinct,  you 

see, 

Values  all  understood,  chaos  become  a  plan. 
A  plan  unto  you  or  me,  but  is  it  a  plan  to  the 

babe 
Or  the  poor  dumb  brute  of  the  field  that 

wanders  amid  it  all? 
"Why  do  I  ask?"  you  say.    Just  for  the  les 

son  taught. 


68 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Look  at  the  world  outside,  look  at  its  pain 
and  sin, 

Look  at  the  tangled  paths  and  the  hopeless 
ness  of  life; 

The  efforts  that  are  uncrowned,  the  ideals 
unattained, 

Look  at  our  grief  and  joy — "splotches"  of 
black  and  white. 

We,  who  are  children  still,  cannot  quite  un 
derstand 

How  it  is  all  a  part  in  the  plarining  of  Him 
who  guides 

Fate  in  its  daily  course,  e'en  as  His  Hand  my 
brush. 

Yet  it  is  ever  so,  and  the  painting  will  tell  its 
tale— 

"Splotches"  of  green  and  brown  changing  to 
what  you  see — 

That  the  picture  which  God  began  will  al 
ways  come  clear  at  last, 

On  canvas  or  there  in  life,  if  man  but  works 
and  waits. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


FEREYBOAT  FANCIES. 

The  sun  above,  and  the  girl  I  love, 

A  breeze  and  a  rippled  bay; 
A  merry  crowd  and  never  a  cloud 

To  shadow  our  joy  to-day. 

Again  and  again  some  old  refrain 

Is  played  by  the  cabin  band ; 
Theyoungsters  chaff  and  the  maidens  laugh 

And  the  elders  understand. 

The  seagulls  glide  by  the  ferryboat's  side, 

Or  dive  for  a  dainty  thrown 
By  a  poor  old  maid  whose  gloves  are  frayed 

And  who  is  all  alone. 

I  wonder  why  Love  passed  her  by? 
Or  has  she  loved,  and  now 
The  singing  hears  in  far-off  spheres 
Of  one  with  aureoled  brow? 


70 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


(2) 


The  sky  and  the  bay  are  sad  to-day, 
The  heart  of  the  ferryboat  throbs, 

As  though  aware  of  tears  in  the  air 
And  the  violin's  low  sobs. 

The  hills  look  chill  and  the  bay  is  still, 

As  still  as  a  ghostly  lake; 
With  piping  cry  the  sea-gulls  fly — 

Winged  mourners — in  our  wake. 

A  maiden  sighs  and  a  baby  cries, 

And  one  old  fellow  sleeps; 
A  youth  in  love  just  gnaws  his  glove, 

A  weeded  woman  weeps. 

I  sit  apart,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
And  think  of  days  now  dead; 

Of  a  last  caress  and  a  fragrant  tress 
From  my  beloved's  head. 


71 


SONGS  OF  A  CIT7. 


(3) 


Before  I  came  the  gulls  were  there — 
The  white-winged  sisters  who  have  been 

The  vestals  of  the  sun-blessed  air 

Since  skies  were  blue  and  waters  green. 

And  when  I  rest  beneath  the  grass 
They,  still,  will  follow,  day  by  day, 

The  throbbing  boats  that  ever  pass 
And  speed  the  eager  on  their  way. 


72 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


Beneath  the  purple  skies 
My  San  Francisco  lies, 

A  myriad  flaming  jewels  on  her  breast; 
The  night,  sad-souled,  enorme, 
Enswathes  her  royal  form — 

The  waters  croon  her  liquidly  to  rest. 

The  while  I  haste  to  her 
The  drowsy  breezes  stir 

The  fitful  flash  of  jewels,  till  the  mist 
Creeps  up  from  off  the  sea 
And  seeks  to  hide  from  me 

The  limbs  a  happy  Titan  may  have  kissed. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

THE    OLD   MAN'S   SONG. 
(Mountain  View.) 

Dig  me  a  grave,  my  sturdy  man, 
Thou  warden  of  the  West; 

For  I  have  run  my  life's  short  span 
And  now  I  fain  would  rest. 

Above  yon  grove  of  shady  trees 
My  resting  place  must  be; 

Where  I  may  feel  the  sun  and  breeze, 
Where  I  may  hear  the  sea; 

Where  I  may  hear  the  raindrops  fall 

And  every  wild-bird  sing, 
And  feel  the  glory  of  it  all, 

Nor  miss  one  single  thing. 

For  everything  to  me  was  good; 

No  day  that  did  not  prove 
Divinity  in  humanhood 

Made  clear  by  human  love. 

Now  shadows  close  about  my  head — 

My  rest  is  fairly  won; 
And  there  is  quiet  with  the  dead — 

For  those  whose  tasks  are  done. 


74 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY.  ,  J0 


AJLI«b3AINfl 

3HJL  JO 

THE  HIGHER  PRAISE. 

(At  the  grave  of  Richard  Realf,  Lone 
Mountain.) 

With  curling  lip  I  sought  that  chosen  place 
Wherein,  at  last,  earth's  toilers  rest,  nor 

hear 

The  fretful  call  of  songbird,  or  the  drear 
Dull  boom  of  waves  against  the  sad  shore's 

face. 

The  hopeless  fog  had  ceased  its  spectral  race 
In  search  of  peace,  which  restless  man 

holds  dear 
And  seldom  finds.    The  air  was  cool  and 

clear ; 
The  flowers  slept  and  night  came  on  apace. 

Beneath  a  mound  of  simple  green  there  lay 
A  man  who  sang,  yet  lacks  the  deathless  bay, 
And  lies  unheeded,  though   his   art  was 

great; 

But  while  I  mused  the  wind  from  o'er  the  sea 
With  scented  breath  crept  gently  up  to  me 
And  whispered  low:     "Unloved  of  all — 
save  fate ! " 


75 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


AN  ODP]  TO  THE  SONS  OF  CALIFORNIA 

O  stalwart  sons  of  the  stalwart  men  whose 

names  are  the  Westland's  glory, 
Whose  mighty  thews  won  the  land  you 

own  and  bequeathed  it  you  forever; 
Whose  deeds  are  writ  for  the  race  to  read  in 

the  world's  immortal  story; 
Whose  pallid  brows  from  their  deathless 

wreaths  no  mortal  hands  shall  sever! 
O  stalwart  sons  of  a  race  of  kings, 
Accept  the  song  an  old  man  sings. 

There  is  no  land  in  the  whole  wide  world  like 

this  great  land  of  ours; 
Beloved  of  men  with  a  child's  true  love  for 

the  gifts  so  nobly  given; 
Beloved  of  God,  who  hath  put  His  seals  in 

the  shapes  of  radiant  flowers 
Upon  each  inch  of  our  fruitful  soil  to  make 

ye  sure  of  heaven. 
O  stalwart  sons  of  a  mighty  land, 
What  hand  so  wise  as  a  Father's  hand? 


76 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

The  Eastland  shrinks  'neath  the  humid  heat; 

the  snow  and  the  ice  assail  her; 
Her  face  is  lashed  by  the  tempest's  whip 

and  scarred  by  the  lightning's  finger; 
Nor    threats    nor    prayers    of    weary    men 

against  their  fate  avail  her — 
The  Eastland  treads  a  gloomy  path  where 
on  few  sunbeams  linger. 
O  stalwart  sons,  the  Eastlaud  bears 
A  heavy  cross  up  life's  steep  stairs! 


Our  land  is  free  from  the  storm's  rough 
breath,  the  hurricane  gods  are  sleep 
ing; 

Our   seasons   pass   with   a   rythmic   step 
through  the  chain  the  days  are  weav 
ing, 
Our  songbirds  sing  with  a  saucy  air — their 

mates  in  the  East  are  weeping; 
Our  land  is  loved  by  the  laughing  sun — 

the  snow-decked  East  is  grieving. 
O  stalwart  sons  of  the  mighty  West, 
Which  land,  think  you,  of  these,  is  best? 


77 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

The  sapphire  sea  on  the  land's  soft  marge 

its  white-souled  spray  is  flinging; 
"  What    strand    so   fair   as   the   Western 
strand?1'  the  laughing  waves  are  cry 
ing. 
The  deep-sea  birds  of  their  Western  loves  in 

hoarser  tones  are  singing, 
As,  homeward  bound  on  the  wind's   great 

wings,  they  fly  when  day  is  dying. 
O  stalwart  sons,  the  birds  should  know, 
For  o'er  the  whole  wide  world  they  go. 


Our  air  is  sweet  with  the  smell  of  herbs  and 

fresh  with  the  breath  of  grasses; 
Our  fields  are  rich  with  a  wealth  of  grain 

lured  forth  by  the  sun's  caresses; 
The  young  winds  dance  on  our  mountain  tops 

and  ring  in  our  gloomy  passes — 
They  ride  at  will  on  the  laughing  waves  or 

hide  in  the  grain's  long  tresses. 
O  stalwart  sons,  could  the  East  but  see 
The  Westland's  rich  fertility! 


78 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Our  girls  are  east  in  a  golden  mold;  their 

cheeks  wear  the  kiss  of  morning; 
Their  lips  are  tinged  with  a  deeper  red 

than  tinges  England's  roses; 
They  grasp  the  truth  of  the  great  new  life 

which  everywhere  is  dawning; 
The  love  of  God — aye,  the  love  of  man — 

within  their  hearts  reposes. 
O  stalwart  sons,  our  girls  are  good — 
The  type  of  truest  womanhood. 


Ye  know  the  worth  of  the  gift  full  well — this 

gift  of  the  Father's  giving — 
And  well  ye  know  how  your  sires  toiled  for 

that  which  ye  inherit ; 
And  well  ye  know  that  without  true  work  no 

life  is  worth  the  living, 
And  in  God's  judgment  deeds  well  done 

Death's  crown  alone  shall  merit. 
O  stalwart  sons,  ye  will  not  shirk 
From  finishing  your  sire's  work? 


70 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Then  up  and  do  while  the  day  is  yours.  Work 

steadily  and  surely 
To  make  the  Banner  of  the  Bear  defy  those 

stars  above  you; 
Have  faith  in  self,  in  State,  in  God.    So  men 

shall  reap  securely 
In  days  to  come  great  benefits,  and  all  the 

world  will  love  you. 
O  stalwart  sons,  Love's  all  that's  worth 
Our  striving  for  upon  this  earth. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


CALIFORNIA. 

The  world  shall  press  toward  her.    From  the 
sea 

Awakened  Asia  shall  demand  her  hand; 
While  eager  Europe,  in  the  years  to  be, 

Shall  seek  alliance  with  this  favored  land. 


81 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LOTTA'S   FOUNTAIN. 

Violets  and  roses,  golden  daffodils, 

Mignonette  and  pansies.     Is  this  winter, 
say? 

Lo,  the  sky  is  smiling  and  a  fragrance  fills 
All  the  air  about  me  this  December  day. 


Car  £ells  loudly  ringing,  newsboys  here  and 

there ; 
Black-eyed    flower    vendors:     "Buy,    fair 

lady,  buy." 
Only  in  my  bosom  is  it  winter  here, 

Only  mine  the  sorrow  that  can  never  die. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


MY   WEST!     MY   WEST! 

The  face  of  the  world  turns  West,  for  the 

Westland  is  great  and  good; 
The  trail  of  the  world  leads  West,  for  the 

Westland  is  young  and  free; 
In  the  Westland  one  is  assured  of  the  oneness 

of  humanhood, 
The  majesty  vested  in   man;   one  learns 

from  the  singing  sea 
The  songs  that  so  subtly  tell  of  the  wonderful 

glory  of  God! 

The  West  is  a  royal  bride,  more  royal  than 

sceptered  queen; 
The  fairest  of  all  fair  lands  the  Maker  of 

All  hath  made. 
The  West  is  the  holy  spot  where  even  to-day 

are  seen 
On  meadow  and  field  and  hill,  in  valley  and 

gorge  and  glade, 
The  signs  that  reveal  to  men  the  Presence 

that  is  divine. 


83 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Ked  Egypt  was  great  of  yore,  a  queen  whose 

mysterious  head 
Was  turned  to  the  silent  sands  that  lay 

like  an  awful  deep 
Around  and  beyond  her  walls.    But  Egypt, 

the  Still,  is  dead; 
Her  towers  are  turned  to  dust  and  the 

mighty  Pharaohs  sleep, 
And  no  one  is  there  to  wake  the  spirit  that 

died  with  them. 

And  Greece?    She  is  now  a  dream;  a  glory 

that  blazed  and  passed 
Across  the  astonished  dark;  a  smile  that 

forsook  too  soon 
The   face    of   the    care-worn    world.      Such 

beauty  was  not  to  last, 
And  so,  when  her  hour  struck,  she  died  in 

a  splendid  swoon 
And  now  she  is  laurel-crowned,  but  dead  as 

the  Past  is  dead. 

The  splendor  of  India,  too,  is  passing;  for 

Famine's  breath 

Has  tarnished  her  crown  of  gold;  and  the 
cries  of  a  million  poor 

84 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Who  crouch  in  the  winged  shade  and  mutter 

for  night  and  death 
Have  driven  her  spirit  forth  from  temples 

that  still  endure 
Like  shells  on  the  hot-lipped  shore,  and  moan 

of  their  emptiness. 


And  Italy  hears  no  more  the  trumpets  that 

stirred  to  Fame 
Her  sons  in  the  shadowed  Past;  nor  Venice, 

nor  even  Kome, 
Nor  Florence,  nor  Padua,  awaken  in  us  the 

same 
Sweet  feeling  of  reverence  that  made  them 

the  queenly  home 
Of  all  that  was  great  and  good  when  the 

world  was  in  its  prime. 


No  more  go  the  white-winged  ships  from  the 

storied  land  of  Spain 
To  conquer  a  virgin  world;  for  Spain  is  a 

royal  ghost 
Whose  spirit  may  moan  and  mourn  on  the 

breast  of  the  heaving  main, 


85 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

But  never  again  may  sing.     For  lo!  she 

hath  joined  the  host 

Of  those  that  have  gone  before,  twice  doomed 
and  forever  damned. 

The  hour  of  each  has  struck.    But  now  in  the 

West  there  is 

The  rival   of   each   of   these — great   Cali 
fornia  ! 

Whose  praises  are  daily  sung  by  jubilant 

symphonies — 

Yea,  the  four  winds  of  God  are  singing 
their  praise  of  her, 

Of  her  who  is  Queen  of  all,  whose  glory  shall 
never  wrane. 

She   sits   by  her  brooding  hills   and   gazes 

across  the  sea 
As  gazes  that  One  of  Greece  across  the 

abyss  of  Time ; 
Secure  as  the  distant  stars  from  rebellions 

that  yet  may  be. 
She  thinks  of  her  sons,  and  laughs;  and  her 

laughter  is  as  the  chime 
Of  silvery  bells  that  hint  the  companionship 

of  God. 

86 


XONGS  OF  A   CITY. 

Who  knows  what  her  eyes  may  see  in  the 

heart  of  the  purple  haze? 
Who  knows  what  her  ears  may  hear  in  the 

silences  of  the  night? 
Who  knows  what  hath  been  inscribed  on  the 

tablets  of  the  days 
That  bide  in  the  womb  of  Time,  till  touched 

by  the  kiss  of  light, 
They  wake  from  their  ancient  sleep  and  issue 

from  out  the  dark? 

She  knows,  but  she  tells  us  not;  she  sees,  and 

is  satisfied. 
And  so  through  the  golden  days  she  sits  on 

her  flowered  throne 
And  watches  the  treasure  brought  on  the 

shoulders  of  the  tide 
From  peoples  across  the  seas,  whose  labors 

enrich  her  own; 
Full   sure  that  the  years  will  bring  great 

blessings  along  with  them. 

Turn   Westward,  embittered  world,  to  the 

love  of  the  amethyst  sea! 
Turn  Westward,  ye  haggard  men,  to  this 
aureoled  chatelaine! 

87 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

The  moon  and  her  maiden  stars,  who  wander 

so  patiently 
Along  the  empurpled  lanes,  have  envied 

the  sun,  and  fain 
Would   brood   o'er  her   splendid   form   did 

morning  not  drive  them  on. 

Turn   Westward,   and  ye   shall   be  (though 

weary  ye  were  and  sad) 
Made  one  with  the  sea  and  sun,  and  the 

breezes  that  woo  the  hills; 
And  ye  shall  rejoice  with  men,  who  labor,  yet 

who  are  glad, 
Because  they  are  free  themselves — as  free 

as  the  air  that  fills 
The  chalice  that  must  be  sweet  to  the  lips 

of  the  most  high  God. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

THE   CHINESE. 

By  twos  and  threes 

From  out  the  mist 
The  weird  Chinese 

Glide  forth  to  tryst. 

Yellow  and  drawn  are  their  passionless  faces, 
Dull  are  their  eyes; 

Blue  are  the  lips  of   each   mouth,   closely 
shaven, 

Stranger  to  sighs. 

Each  has  a  pigtail  that  dangles  behind, 

Each  lets  his  shirt-tail  fly  loose  in  the  wind; 
And,  added  to  that, 
Every  Chinaman's  hat 

Is  wide  in  the  brim,  in  the  crown  very  low. 
Other  hats  seldom  go- 
Not  with  John. 

Work  is  now   over  for  them.     They  have 
served  us 

Better  than  Japs — 

Cooking,    and   washing,    and    waiting,    and 
dusting, 

Stealing,  perhaps. 
John  is  a  good  one  at  gravies  and  pies, 

89 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

And  other  creations  from  shortcake  to  lies; 
And  if  he  provides 
For  his  own  folk  besides 

Perhaps  he's  a  pull  with  his  favorite  Joss — 
"  It's  nobody?s  loss," 
Thinketh  John. 

They  look  pretty  solemn."   And  yet,  if  yon 
followed 

Slumming  to-night, 

Then  you  might  see  how  those  eyes,  strangely 
leaden, 

Smoulder  with  light 

Born  of  strange  fancies  that  opium  gives, 
When,  for  an  hour,  the  Chinaman  lives; 

And  the  cares  of  the  day 

Are  driven  away 
By  visions  of  almond-eyed  maidens  who  smile 

For  a  very  short  while 

On  poor  John. 

By  twos  and  threes 

Behind  the  mist 
The  weird  Chinese 

Glide  forth  to  tryst. 


90 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


LUNA'S. 

Have  you  never  been  feasted  by  Luna,  who 

dwelt  near  the  Church  of  Assist 
In  the  Mexican  quarter  of  'Frisco?     Ah, 

well,  you  have  missed  it,  I  tell  you; 
For  he  was  a  chef,  if  there  was  one,  in  all  the 

delectable  city 

That  lies  by  the  mighty  Pacific,  expectant, 
and  dreaming  of  Asia. 

How  oft  in  the  fickle-starred  nineties  I  sat  at 

his  snow-linened  table 
With   an   equally   careless   companion,   and 

only  a  dollar  between  us; 
And  let  the  red  vino  de  Na-pa  encarinine  a 

mood  that  was  sable 
And  the   Chili  con  came   (carainba!)   lend 

warmth  to  a  heart  that  was  frozen. 

O  dream-stirring  dishes  of  Luna!    What  lake 

on  the  boiling  equator 
As  hot  as  his  sopa  galena?    His  entrees,  and 
that  which  came  after, 

91 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

Were  hotter  than  fire  and  brimstone.     Full 

often  I  felt  like  a  crater 
And  longed  for  a  bite  of  the  Arctic  to  cool 
the  disturbance  inside  me. 


How  well  one  remembers  the  mother,  an  aged 

and  stately  senora, 
Who  sat  at  his  family  table,  and  smiled  at 

us  all  as  we  entered! 

How  well  one  remembers  the  waiter,  the 
wrall-eyed,  wrho  said:  "Have  some 
more-a  ?" 

"  More  vino,  or  breado,  or  salta?"     The 
rogue  was  a  native  Vermonter! 


Two  hours  we  suffered  in  silence  the  tortures 

reserved  for  the  sinner; 
The  waiter  would  leer  while  we  smouldered, 
and  swear  that  he  came  from  Madrida. 
Then  coffee  came  on,  with  it  Luna,  who  hoped 

we  had  had  a  good  dinner, 
And  couldn't  he  stand  us  a  something,  just 
one,  say  a  small  maraschino? 


92 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

How  often  he  brought  to  us  cocktails,  of 

mescal,  infernal,  but  cheering: 
"Con  mio,  senores,  con  mio;  Saludo    Ustedes, 

senores ! " 
How  often  he    ope'd    the    cigar    box,  or 

thirty-year  cognac,  declaring 
He  loved  a  poor  artist  (good  Luna!),  and 

wouldn't  we  read  him  a  poem? 


We  told  him  of  pictures  unpainted,  of  poems 

too  high  for  expression, 
The  while  on  the  coals  of  ambition  he  blew, 

and  predicted  our  fortune; 
And  wouldn't  we  have  just  another,  just  one, 

say  Chartreuse,  for  digression, 
Before  we  stepped  forth  on  the  sidewalks 
and  climbed  the  long  hills  to  our  lodg 
ing? 


Ah,  well,  they  are  over  for  ever,  those  days 

when  the  gilt  was  untarnished, 
Those  days  when  we  lived  in  a  garret,  and 
dined  when  our  pockets  permitted; 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

But  now  we  are  older  and  sadder,  and  daily 

becoming  more  varnished, 
And  Chateau  Latitte  fails  to  please  us  like 
wine  that  was  five  cents  a  bottle. 


We  pick  at  our  food  like  a  raven,  and  croak 

of  a  coining  to-morrow, 
And  though  we  have  money,  we  save  it, 
and  dream  of  the  joys  of  the  nineties; 
For  when  a  lad's  young  he  is  happy,  but  when 

he  grows  old  he  must  sorrow 
And  pay  for  the  dinners  he  mastered,  and 
the  mescal  he  swallowed,  at  Luna's. 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


A  YEAR'S  CHANGE. 

So  bine  the  still  Pacific, 

So  blue  the  stiller  skies, 
So  blue  the  waving  irises — 
So  blue  her  eyes! 

But  yesteryear  we  lingered 
Upon  those  hills  at  dawn 

And  saw  the  sea  preparing1 
To  greet  the  morn. 

And  now  the  skies  are  frowning, 
No  more  the  flowers  wave; 

The  very  sea  is  sighing — 
My  heart's  a  grave. 


95 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 

SAN  FRANCISCO. 
(From  the  Hills.) 

'Mid  sedges  tall  this  summer  day  I  lie 
And  hear  the  waves  fall  softly  on  the  sand. 
So  pure  the  air,  it  seems  with  outstretched 

hand 
One  e'en  might  touch  that  veil  we  call  the 

sky. 

From  o'er  the  sea  the  wind  with  fretful  sigh 
Betakes  its  way  across  the  fertile  land, 
Whose  flaunting  poppies  form  a  golden 

band, 
And  dance  before  the  sun's  voluptuous  eye. 

Beyond  the  dunes  a  city,  young  but  proud, 

Uprears  its  front  in   sunshine   or  through 

cloud 
And  ever  lures  new  children  to  her  breast; 

A   man-made   city;   one   wrhose   voice   shall 
sound 

In    days   to    come    life's   truths   the   world 

around, 

And  wake  earth's  leaders  from  their  gold- 
drugged  rest. 


96 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


MUSIC  IN  THE  PARK. 

It  seeins  so  good,  so  very  good,  to  be 
A  part  of  all  this  joyousness  to-day. 

The  air  is  full  of  subtle  melody — 

Rossini,  Liszt,  and  Wagner.     One  might 
say 

They  sat  with  us,  or  we  were  guests  of  theirs 

And  heard  the  holy  music  of  the  spheres. 

Such  air!  Such  skies!  Such  fragrance!  What 

delight 

Like  this  to  lie  outstretched  upon  the  green 
And  bathe  one's  soul  in  music,  while  the 

white, 
Stray  clouds  creep  onward,  and  a  golden 

sheen 
Enswathes  the  world,  upon  whose  peaceful 

breast 
The  very  shade  lies,  idle-winged,  at  rest. 


07 


SONGS  OF  A  CITY. 


THE  PROMISE  OF  LIFE. 

A  setting  sun,  a  purple  sea; 
One  shaft  of  golden  light 
That  tints  the  hill-tops,  and,  to  me, 
Hints  dawn-burst  after  night. 


Fear  not,  my  soul,  the  gray  of  death, 

The  still,  uncharted  main; 
The  Light  will  find  thee,  and  the  breath 

Of  God  be  thine  again. 


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